or downstairs. Then the door to the billiard room opened and one of the boys came out. He paused when he saw Cordelia, and then his eyelids half sank and his mouth curled in a funny way.
“What?” she demanded indignantly.
But he only shrugged and went down, taking the stairs two at a time. The door to the billiard room was ajar and she paused for a moment in the door frame, as though she might catch someone doing something that would explain the pall that hung over Dogwood. But there was only one person left in the room—Victor, Astrid’s bodyguard, sitting on the worn sofa by the window, his legs crossed and a newspaper open in front of him.
“Miss Cordelia.” He stood up when he saw her and put the paper away.
“Where’s Astrid?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t seen her all morning, is she all right?” He said it too quickly, then afterward cracked his knuckles as though he was embarrassed.
“I suppose there’s nothing strange about her being in bed past noon,” Cordelia replied slowly. “That’s how she was brought up.”
“Right.” Victor cleared his throat. “Of course.”
“Victor, what’s wrong?”
“They didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
But before he could reply, she heard her name being said on the radio, and she forgot about Victor and charged toward the droning sound.
“…ever since Miss Grey entered the young pilot’s life, his golden touch seemed compromised. Whereas before he was incapable of doing wrong, now he erred, his interest in flying went slack, and though he was reputed never to touch alcohol, he was spotted in clubs where drinking was known to be the main draw. Of course, there were many in the sporting world who thought he would return to form once the bootlegger’s daughter was out of his life, but as was reported in the Night Owl column this morning, it appears they’ve been seeing each other regularly, that in fact Cordelia was visiting Max Darby in his mother’s Harlem apartment and was apparently in on the secret that he was a Negro by birth…”
Cordelia’s eyes rolled slowly toward Victor. Her face was numb, and she couldn’t begin to think of what to say. “It’s in the paper, too, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know—”
“Never mind.” She crossed toward him and snatched the paper out of his hand and flipped to the gossip section. There, taking up almost a quarter of the page, was a photo of her and Max stepping out of Mrs. Darby’s apartment, and then a smaller one of Max the next morning saying good-bye to his mother on the street. In the black-and-white photo the difference in their skin tone was exaggerated, but you could perfectly see the family resemblance.
After that she was deaf to the radio and the ceiling fan and anything Victor might have tried to say to her.
“If Jones comes looking for me, tell him I’ve gone on a long walk.”
She didn’t gauge Victor’s reaction. By the time the last word was out of her mouth she was at the door, and shortly thereafter she had arrived in the first-floor library, where she asked to be connected to the Hudson Laurels’ place.
“Mrs. Hudson Laurel’s line.” It was a strange, prim voice, and though Cordelia had never met Max’s patrons, she sensed that this was a secretary and not the lady of the house herself.
“Is Max at home?”
“I’m sorry.” There was a long pause. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
Cordelia’s eyes sank closed, and she set her teeth. The horrid coldness of this statement made her want to lash out, but she knew that wouldn’t help her any. All that mattered in that moment was finding Max. “Yes,” she said evenly, “you do.”
On the other end of the line there was a sharp exhalation. “Well, he’s not here. Mrs. Laurel can’t have him in the house anymore. He was like a member of the family, you know, and that just wouldn’t do anymore. She was a suffragette! She’s still sore they got the vote before we did.”
Cordelia
“What?” she demanded indignantly.
But he only shrugged and went down, taking the stairs two at a time. The door to the billiard room was ajar and she paused for a moment in the door frame, as though she might catch someone doing something that would explain the pall that hung over Dogwood. But there was only one person left in the room—Victor, Astrid’s bodyguard, sitting on the worn sofa by the window, his legs crossed and a newspaper open in front of him.
“Miss Cordelia.” He stood up when he saw her and put the paper away.
“Where’s Astrid?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t seen her all morning, is she all right?” He said it too quickly, then afterward cracked his knuckles as though he was embarrassed.
“I suppose there’s nothing strange about her being in bed past noon,” Cordelia replied slowly. “That’s how she was brought up.”
“Right.” Victor cleared his throat. “Of course.”
“Victor, what’s wrong?”
“They didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
But before he could reply, she heard her name being said on the radio, and she forgot about Victor and charged toward the droning sound.
“…ever since Miss Grey entered the young pilot’s life, his golden touch seemed compromised. Whereas before he was incapable of doing wrong, now he erred, his interest in flying went slack, and though he was reputed never to touch alcohol, he was spotted in clubs where drinking was known to be the main draw. Of course, there were many in the sporting world who thought he would return to form once the bootlegger’s daughter was out of his life, but as was reported in the Night Owl column this morning, it appears they’ve been seeing each other regularly, that in fact Cordelia was visiting Max Darby in his mother’s Harlem apartment and was apparently in on the secret that he was a Negro by birth…”
Cordelia’s eyes rolled slowly toward Victor. Her face was numb, and she couldn’t begin to think of what to say. “It’s in the paper, too, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know—”
“Never mind.” She crossed toward him and snatched the paper out of his hand and flipped to the gossip section. There, taking up almost a quarter of the page, was a photo of her and Max stepping out of Mrs. Darby’s apartment, and then a smaller one of Max the next morning saying good-bye to his mother on the street. In the black-and-white photo the difference in their skin tone was exaggerated, but you could perfectly see the family resemblance.
After that she was deaf to the radio and the ceiling fan and anything Victor might have tried to say to her.
“If Jones comes looking for me, tell him I’ve gone on a long walk.”
She didn’t gauge Victor’s reaction. By the time the last word was out of her mouth she was at the door, and shortly thereafter she had arrived in the first-floor library, where she asked to be connected to the Hudson Laurels’ place.
“Mrs. Hudson Laurel’s line.” It was a strange, prim voice, and though Cordelia had never met Max’s patrons, she sensed that this was a secretary and not the lady of the house herself.
“Is Max at home?”
“I’m sorry.” There was a long pause. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
Cordelia’s eyes sank closed, and she set her teeth. The horrid coldness of this statement made her want to lash out, but she knew that wouldn’t help her any. All that mattered in that moment was finding Max. “Yes,” she said evenly, “you do.”
On the other end of the line there was a sharp exhalation. “Well, he’s not here. Mrs. Laurel can’t have him in the house anymore. He was like a member of the family, you know, and that just wouldn’t do anymore. She was a suffragette! She’s still sore they got the vote before we did.”
Cordelia
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